Mardi Gras
by Susan M. M
Summary: Vincent and Catherine play Cupid for one of the Tunnel's Helpers.


**Standard Fanfic Warning **that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, er, typing practice. Yeah, that's it, typing practice. (The quick red fox jumping over the lazy brown dog gets old real quick, y'know?) Based on characters and situations from the _Beauty and the Beast__ TV show, created by Ron Koslow._ All characters will be returned to their lawful owners unharmed (or at least suitably bandaged). Originally published in Diamonds and Dynamite #1, from Agent with Style Press.

**Mardi Gras **

_Beauty and the Beast_

Susan M. M.

For Joe Salazar and Damon Runyon – thanks for the inspiration

{and many thanks to Jean Graham of Peacock Press for beta-reading}

**New York City, 1989**

Catherine Chandler checked th card in her hand, then looked at the house numbers in front of her and across the street. She should be less than a block from her destination. The blonde continued walking down Bleeker Street until she found it.

"Galleria de Ayala," Catherine read aloud. "Art Gallery. Artist's Supplies. _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala y Salazar, Proprietor. This is it." She entered the shop, one of the many specialty shops in New York City's Greenwich Village. She carried a folded up luggage cart carefully, not wanting to bump into anything.

She looked around. There were rows of shelves, all filled with paints, brushes, turpentine, etc. Two college students were rummaging through a box of canvases of various shapes and sizes. An elderly lady was looking at the bookshelf in the back.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for Mrs. Salazar," Catherine announced.

"De Ayala," the old woman at the back of the store corrected gently. She returned a book on Renoir to its place, then came forward to meet Catherine. "Salazar was my mother's maiden name. I am _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala."

She came forward, her hand extended in greeting. Her white hair was neatly gathered into a bun. Her blue eyes lit up at the sight of her visitor.

Catherine couldn't help being reminded on one of her father's favorite songs, 'Blue Spanish Eyes.' But there was more than just friendly welcome in the twinkle of those eyes. Something else – Catherine couldn't tell what.

"I'm Catherine Chandler from the D. A.'s office." She shook hands as she introduced herself. "I came to collect the books for the book drive."

"They are very heavy," _Doña_ Sancha warned. Her English was flawless, but overlaid with a slight accent. "Will you be able to manage by yourself?"

"My car is parked nearby," Catherine assured her. "And I brought this." She displayed the cart she used to ferry heavy files and boxes of evidence around the courthouse. "I'm not foolish enough to try to lug boxes of heavy books by hand."

"_No, Don Vicente no puede amar a una boba_,{**1**}" _Doña_ Sanchez murmured.

Catherine raised one delicately upswept eyebrow. Her Spanish was limited to a few words and phrases. However, her French was fluent, and there were enough cognates between Spanish and French for her to suss out a few words – just enough to pique her interest. Restraining her curiosity, she smiled and said, "It's nice of you to help with the book drive. A lot of children who can't buy books will really appreciate this."

"It is important for the children to have books," _Doña_ Sancha agreed, "not just for the learning, but the adventures for the boys, the romances for the girls, the fables and fairy tales for the little ones."

Catherine remembered when she'd been younger, she'd enjoyed The Three Musketeers and Treasure Island just as much as Sue Barton, Student Nurse and Georgette Heyer. Not wanting to argue women's lib - or literary taste - with a woman old enough to be her grandmother, Catherine merely folded the box lids shut, one flap over, one flap under.

_Doña_ Sancha fetched a roll of masking tape from under the counter and silently handed it to the attractive young attorney. Catherine taped the boxes shut.

"Thank you." Catherine maneuvered the boxes onto her cart.

"_De nada._" _Doña _ Sancha smiled up at her. "I knew a Catherine Chandler was coming to pick up the books for the children, but I did not realize you were his Catherine."

"His Catherine?" she repeated.

"Come to the other room for a minute," _Doña_ Sancha invited. "The books will be safe there." She led the way into the back room, not looking to see whether or not Catherine was following her.

Hanging on the walls were dozens of paintings in a variety of styles and sizes. Pegboards divided the room into thirds, and provided display space for scores more of paintings. Catherine glanced at them: landscapes, portraits, still lifes, abstracts.

"Back here," _Doña_ Sancha beckoned.

On the back wall was a sign that read 'Display Only. The paintings on this wall are not for sale.' Only six paintings hung there, but Catherine knew immediately which one _Doña_ Sancha wanted her to see. It was a portrait of her, standing on the balcony of her apartment. She stepped forward to examine the painting more closely. In the bottom right corner, in lieu of the usual artist's signature, was merely a single initial: V.

"Vincent." Catherine whispered the name.

"I recognized you as soon as I saw you," _Doña_ Sancha informed her.

Blushing slightly, Catherine looked at the other 'display only' paintings. A family portrait caught her eye – an oil painting of a father, a mother, and two boys about grade school age. Catherine glanced from the oil painting to the elderly woman and back again.

"Is that you?"

"_Si._ My husband, God rest his soul," she crossed herself piously, "painted this years ago." She pointed to the boy on the left. "José is a priest now. And Enrique," the light in her eyes faded, "he died in Korea." She crossed herself again.

"I'm so sorry. Catherine said softly.

"It was God's will," _Doña_ Sancha murmured. "And it was a very long time ago. Still, I would have liked grandchildren. Perhaps that is why I enjoy helping the children in the Tunnels."

* * *

That evening, Vincent, Mouse, and Winslow met Catherine at the secret entrance in the basement of her apartment building.

Vincent reached out a golden furred paw. Being careful of his claws, he took her hand in silent greeting. No words were necessary between them; he used his empathic link with her to project his pleasure at seeing her. And her joyful smile was reply enough for him.

"Lots of books," Mouse declared at the sight of the piled boxes. "Lots good." The blond teenager frowned as he realized, "Lots heavy."

"We don't have to take them all at one time," Winslow reminded him with a grin. "We can make more than one trip." The big Black man nodded at Catherine. "Good to see you again, Catherine."

Mouse considered Winslow's suggestion. "Okay good, okay fine." The young man looked up, noticing the attorney for the first time. "Hi, Catherine."

The adults exchanged indulgent smiles. Sometimes Mouse's social skills were as impaired as his vocabulary.

"Let me help you," Catherine offered.

"These are too heavy for you," Winslow protested. "We'll get them."

"Who do you think collected them from the stores helping with the book drive and then hauled them down here?" Catherine put her left hand on her hip. One delicate ash-blonde eyebrow rose defiantly.

Vincent chuckled, a warm laugh that had just a hint of growl in it. "Never try to tell Catherine she can't do something, Winslow. Once she's made up her mind, you'd have an easier time moving the Empire State Building." Vincent's hood fell back, revealing a leonine face.

Winslow shrugged and grinned wryly, a silent acknowledgement of his defeat. The four of them carried box after box over the threshold. Once all the books were out of Catherine's basement and in the Tunnels, each took a box and starting lugging them to the secret community hidden beneath the streets of New York City. Vincent, despite having stood up for Catherine's right and ability to assist, removed a third of the books from her box before permitting her to accompany them.

"I met an interesting lady when I was collecting the books," Catherine said. "Mrs. de Ayala."

"Mrs. de Ayala?" Vincent and Winslow repeated. Both chuckled, not unkindly.

"I think you mean _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala," Vincent corrected.

"She did prefer that, yes," Catherine acknowledged. "Who is she? Isn't _doña_ Spanish for 'lady'?"

"Not quite. It doesn't translate properly into English," Vincent explained. "_Doña _is more than Mrs., yet less than Lady. Her family were Spanish aristocrats – _hidalgos._ They fled Spain when Franco came to power."

Catherine did the math in her head. "She must have been very young then."

Vincent nodded. "She's lived in this country for decades, yet she still insists on being addressed as _Doña_ Sancha rather than Mrs. de Ayala. She doesn't always get her wish, but …"

"Her husband used to come down to the Tunnels and give art lessons," Winslow remembered. "And she tutored anyone who was interested in Spanish or French."

Catherine filed the information away for future notice. She was always curious about the Tunnelworld's Helpers. "She seemed lonely."

"I suspect she is. Her age no longer permits her to come down here and visit. If you wanted to befriend her," Vincent suggested, "you'd find the acquaintance well worth cultivating."

Catherine smiled. "She speaks well of you, too."

* * *

And thus Catherine started dropping by the galleria now and again, sometimes buying a picture for her apartment, sometimes just browsing. Eventually she started asking _Doña_ Sancha to join her at the Russian teashop at the end of the block. And Catherine found that (once again) Vincent had been right. The acquaintance was well worth cultivating.

One chilly February afternoon, _Doña_ Sancha sipped her tea. "You must be excited about this masquerade ball."

Catherine nodded. "It's so seldom Vincent can join me Above. The charity masquerade will be a wonderful chance for him to get out and meet new people."

"And a chance for you to dance with your _novio_," the old lady teased. "I remember the dances I attended when I was young: the music, the beautiful gowns, the thrill of being in a handsome young man's arms – especially if the young man is someone special."

"I could get you a ticket for the Mardi Gras ball," Catherine offered.

_Doña_ Sancha shook her head. "It is a charity ball. I can not afford a hundred dollars for a ticket."

"I have a cousin on the committee," Catherine lied. "I could get a ticket for you."

"I am in reduced circumstances, but I have not yet reached the point where I will stoop to accepting charity," the elderly _hidalga_ declared proudly. "No, no, I am too old. I have had my day. This is for _los jovenes, _like you and _Vicente._"

Catherine just nodded, unwilling to press the matter. She glanced at her watch. "I need to get back to the office."

_Doña_ Sancha rose slowly from her chair. "_Adios_, Catherine, y _gracias_. Thank you for lunch."

Catherine smiled at her. "It was my pleasure." She rose and pushed her chair in. "I'll see you soon."

_Doña_ Sancha stepped on a piece of newspaper someone had left on the floor. She caught herself before she could slip and fall.

"Are you all right?" Catherine asked. She knew how fragile old bones could be.

"Yes, I am all right ... no thanks to the litterbugs." She bent down to pick up the paper so no one else would step on it. Her gaze fell on a picture. She read the caption beneath it. "_Dios mio."_

"What is it?" Catherine asked.

"Giuseppe." _Doña_ Sancha's voice dropped to a whisper. "My Giuseppe."

As the elderly lady sank back into her chair, Catherine took the paper from her and read it silently. Count Giuseppe di Savoy, retiring CEO of Bremagne et St. Guillame, visited auto factory in New Jersey.

"Who is he?" Catherine asked.

"_Mi querido -_ my beloved." _Doña_ Sancha suddenly looked her seventy-plus years ... and then some. "We fell in love, but our parents forbade the match. His family was of higher rank than mine, and his parents considered it a _mesalliance_. My parents wanted me to marry my cousin, to keep the inheritance of our estate within the family. I did, and Felipe and I had many happy years together, but I never forgot Giuseppe. I could never forget him. Excuse me, please. I must go."

She had to go. She was too proud to cry in public.

* * *

Catherine sat at her desk, reading the police report on the Williams case. The phone rang; she picked it up. "Assistant District Attorney Chandler."

"Cathy, it's Trish," Patricia Bradbury of the New York Times identified herself.

"Trish? Hi. Were you able to find anything on _le comte_?"

"Had to call in a few favors, but yeah. _Il Conte Giuseppe di Savoy -_ five or six middle names, do you need them?"

"No," Catherine assured her.

"Okay, here's the Reader's Digest version: genuine European aristocrat, distant cousin of the Italian royal family. Married a French duke's daughter. He's related by blood or marriage to half the noble houses of Europe. His wife died five years ago of cancer. Three daughters, all married to bluebloods, ten grandkids," Trish read from her notes. "Due to retire as CEO of Bremagne et St. Guillame, the car company his father-in-law started, next month. Officially, he came to the USA to inspect the factory Bremagne et St. Guillame bought in New Jersey, but according to Oscar in the sports department, the real reason was to go to Kentucky and check out the horses."

"Horses?" Catherine repeated.

"Breeding race horses is his hobby," Trish explained. "Matter of fact, he'll be staying with Edmund Dixon when he gets back to New York."

"Dixon of Dixon's Shoes?" asked Catherine. "The philanthropist?"

"To you and me, he's the guy who made our sneakers when we were kids and the philanthropist who sponsors Broadway shows and donates to hospitals. To Oscar, he's the guy who owns the best horses at Belmont Park."

"Isn't Mrs. Dixon on the committee for the Mardi Gras charity ball?"

Trish laughed. "I don't think there's a charity in town where she's not on the board of directors."

"Thanks, Trish, I owe you one."

"You're welcome. Any chance you're gonna tell me what this is all about?" Trish asked. "It doesn't sound like it's for one of your cases."

"I'm playing Cupid," Catherine confessed, "trying to arrange a very belated happily ever after for the count and a woman he knew fifty years ago."

"I smell a scoop," Trish declared.

"If it all works out, I'll give you an exclusive once it's done and over with."

* * *

Catherine sat on the sofa, chatting amiably with an old classmate from Radcliffe. There was a knock on the door. "That will be her."

She rose and crossed the living room. She opened the door and greeted _Doña_ Sancha. "Please, come in."

"You have a lovely apartment, Catherine." _Doña_ Sancha looked around the living room of Catherine's high-rise apartment. She had lived in New York City long enough to guess what a place of this size, overlooking Central Park, cost. She smiled and nodded to the stranger sitting on the sofa.

"_Doña_ Sancha, this is my friend, Paula Schultz. Paula, this is the lady I told you about, _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala y Salazar," Catherine introduced them.

"_Con mucho gusto, __Doña_ Sancha. I'm happy to be able to help you," Paula said.

"Help me?"

"I have a business called Fine Feathers. I make and sell RenFaire garb. Costumes for Renaissance Faires," Paula explained, seeing the lack of comprehension in _Doña_ Sancha's blue eyes.

"We are going to find you a beautiful, elegant gown. You will go to the Mardi Gras ball. You will dance with Count Savoy," Catherine ordered. "After that, what happens is up to you."

"But - "

"No buts. Giuseppe di Savoy is attending the Mardi Gras ball, and you are, too."

"To see Giuseppe again," _Doña_ Sancha whispered under her breath. "No, I could not possibly - "

"No buts," Catherine repeated.

Paula studied _Doña_ Sancha a moment. "Blue, I think, to match your eyes." She got up to fetch the gowns she had brought with her.

"I am too old for all this," _Doña_ Sancha protested.

"I'm not saying you and Giuseppe should get married. But you should at least have a chance to see each other again after all these years," Catherine said.

"He has a wife," _Doña_ Sancha said sadly.

"No, he's a widower," Catherine told her. "He lost his wife a few years ago."

"He did?" _Doña_ Sancha took a deep breath, as if trying to muster her courage. "One dance cannot hurt. It will do no harm to look at the dresses, since your friend has gone to the trouble to bring them here."

Catherine had been able to estimate _Doña_ Sancha's size fairly well, and Paula had bought several gowns appropriate to fifteenth and sixteenth century noblewomen. Once they tried on the third dress, they ignored the others.

"Perfect," Catherine declared.

"A few tiny adjustments, and it will fit like it was made for you," Paula predicted.

Suddenly _Doña_ Sancha was nervous, and ready to find excuses. "I cannot afford this. The ticket is a hundred dollars, and this gown - it must be very expensive."

"Did you ever see the Leslie Caron version of Cinderella?" Catherine asked.

"The Glass Slipper," Paula chimed in.

"Instead of magically turning a pumpkin into a carriage and mice into horses, her godmother got someone else's coachman to take her to the ball. He had to pick up his people at a set time; that's why she had the midnight curfew," Catherine explained.

"And her dress was 'borrowed' from a store window, if I remember correctly," Paula added. "You're just borrowing this dress. No charge. Just think of us as your unfairy godmothers."

_Doña_ Sancha looked down at herself in a royal blue velvet dress that might have been worn by one of Henry VIII's wives or their ladies-in-waiting. The gown had a broad, square neckline, trimmed in gold lace. The double-layered drop sleeves were lined with the same gold lace, as was the front split, which gave the illusion of an underskirt. The dress was beautiful. She was beautiful.

* * *

Like many skyscrapers in New York City, the building hosting the Mardi Gras charity costume ball had a basement. That basement had a hidden door, which led to the Tunnelworld beneath the city where Vincent lived.

It was a simple matter for Vincent to go to the correct basement, take the elevator up, and go to the ball. He handed over his invitation at the door as if he belonged there.

Of course, he did belong, not that he would ever believe it. He felt guilty that Catherine had spent three hundred dollars on tickets for _Doña_ Sancha and them. Never having handled money, three hundred dollars sounded like a vast sum to him. He knew Catherine had taken a pay cut when she left her father's law firm to join the District Attorney's office. However, Catherine had assured him it was worth the money for the chance to help _Doña_ Sancha and have an actual date with him. So he scanned the room for _Doña_ Sancha and Catherine, trying not to think how many canned goods Helpers could have bought for the Tunnel Dwellers with that money.

The room was only half-full, since the party had just started. Vincent glanced at the movers and shakers of New York, recognizing some of the faces from the newspapers. He saw several superheroes, two pairs of Caesars and Cleopatras, Robin Hood, samurai, vampires, and a giant bunny rabbit.

"Nice costume," a pirate complimented him.

Vincent merely nodded and continued walking toward the buffet table. He was just putting some Brie on his plate when he saw Catherine and _Doña_ Sancha come in. Both were in blue. Both looked beautiful. _Doña_ Sancha wore a blue velvet gown with gold trim, a gown that would not have been out of place at the court of Ferdinand and Isabella, or at the court of their son-in-law, Henry VIII. Catherine wore a simpler outfit, a blue bodice and skirt over a white chemise. Vincent took a good, long look at her - garbed as though she had just stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale - and fell in love with her all over again.

He crossed the room to meet them. He took Catherine's hand, kissed it, and then did the same to _Doña_ Sancha.

"Why can't you do something like that?" a woman in a yellow ballet leotard and tights and multi-colored butterfly wings asked her partner.

"It wouldn't be in character for me, not in this outfit," the hobo replied. Catherine recognized him as an actor currently appearing on Broadway.

Vincent led the ladies back to the buffet table. He knew there were delicacies there that _Doña_ Sancha had not been able to afford in years.

"Chocolate covered strawberries, at this time of the year," she marveled.

"Probably hothouse grown," Catherine said with the casualness of someone who had never had to scrimp on her grocery bill.

They nibbled and made small talk as _Doña_ Sancha scanned the room for Count Giuseppe di Savoy.

"How will I find him amongst so many people? What if he is wearing a mask? He could walk right past me, and I would not recognize him," she worried.

"Most of the people here are just wearing costumes, not masks, so the odds are in our favor," Catherine said. "And you're not wearing a mask. He might see you and recognize you."

"After so many years?"

"You recognized him from his photo," Catherine reminded her.

The band began to play 'The Blue Danube.'

"Go. Dance," _Doña_ Sancha urged. "You do not need to babysit me."

Catherine didn't need to be told twice. She took Vincent's paw and led him onto the dance floor before he had a chance to open his mouth to say yes or no.  
A polka followed the waltz. Before the band could start playing the next song, a cowgirl came up to Vincent.

"I recognize that costume. You were at the Halloween party for Brigit O'Donnell, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was," Vincent admitted.

The cowgirl eyed him appreciatively. "A costume that elaborate, I can't blame you for recycling it. I'd want to show it off again, too."

Vincent merely smiled.

"I was a bride then," the cowgirl said.

"I wore an owl mask and a Martha Washington gown." Catherine introduced herself, "I'm Catherine, and this is Vincent."

"Naomi." She smiled at Catherine. "Mind if I steal him away for one dance?"

"I - uh - " Vincent hadn't anticipated this.

"As long as it's only one dance," Catherine agreed. She looked up at Vincent. "It'll do you good to meet some new people."

Ignoring his feeble protests, Naomi led him out on the dance floor. A moment later Santa Claus noticed Catherine's solo status and asked her to dance.

Naomi talked to Vincent about Brigit O'Donnell's work. Vincent told about meeting her and discussing 300 Days with her. He got so involved with the discussion that he was surprised when the dance ended.

Naomi passed Vincent off to Teresa with the comment: "You'll like him. He's literate."

After Teresa was Janice, who was more interested in current events than literature, and after Janice was Lorraine, who was only interested in dancing, not conversation.

"I thought I said one dance." She didn't laugh aloud, but Vincent could hear the chuckle in her voice. "Well, at least you met some new people."

"I came here to dance with you," Vincent told her.

"Then let's."

Catherine glanced around the room as they danced, enjoying the feel of his arm around her body. She saw _Doña_ Sancha dancing with a Robin Hood who didn't look old enough to shave yet. A few old friends from her frivolous debutante days greeted her as she waltzed around the room with Vincent. Her gaze lit on the doorway, and the trio just entering the room: an elderly French musketeer, a nurse whose hair was as white as her uniform, and a silver-haired doctor.

"I think that's them."

Vincent whirled her in the direction of the doorway, so they could get a better look. When they got closer, they could see that the doctor - who was wearing a nametag that said Welby - was indeed millionaire Edmund Dixon. And the musketeer was _Doña_ Sancha's Italian count.

"Where's _Doña_ Sancha?" Catherine asked.

Vincent turned his head. "Over there, dancing with Spock."

They stopped dancing and walked over to the entrance of the ballroom.

"_Pardonnez-moi. M. le comte_?" Catherine confirmed.

The old man turned to face her. "_Oui_?"

"There's someone here who would like to speak with you," Catherine continued in French.

"I'm sorry, but I am not granting interviews to reporters tonight. Tonight I am only here to enjoy the ball," he said in thickly accented English.

"She's not a reporter. Neither am I. It's someone you met in Rome, many years ago," Catherine told him. "Do you remember _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala?"

"Sancha?" The count's face lit up. "_Bien sur._ She is here?"

Vincent pointed. "The elegant lady in the blue gown."

The count stared in the direction Vincent had pointed. "Edmund, Helen, excuse me, please. I haven't seen Sancha in years." He walked off without another word.

"What was that all about?" Helen Dixon wanted to know.

"Tonight - my costume to the contrary - I am playing Cupid." Catherine smiled. She took Vincent's paw and they returned to the dance floor.

* * *

"Excuse me," the elderly musketeer asked the Starfleet officer. "May I cut in?"

_Doña_ Sancha stopped and stood still. "Giuseppe."

"Sancha." He breathed her name more than spoke it.

The Vulcan-eared artist looked from his gallery owner to the old man, and knew he could never in a hundred years manage to paint the look they exchanged. He took her hand and silently passed it over to the count, as solemnly as a father handing his daughter over to her groom at the altar.

Conte Giuseppe di Savoy took _Doña_ Sancha de Ayala y Salazar in his arms. Just as they began to dance, the music ended.

He smiled down at her ruefully. "The next dance, then?"

"_Sí_." She gazed up at him, comparing the time-worn face he had now with that of the handsome young nobleman she had met in Rome, when she was hardly more than a girl.

"You are still so beautiful," he told her.

She shook her head. "I am an old woman."

"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her." The count quoted Shakespeare's famous line about Cleopatra, in French. Continuing in that language, he said, "Beautiful women are like fine wine, only improving with age. Besides," he chuckled, "I am an old horse turned out to pasture now, not a bold young colt."

"You are still handsome," she told him, also in French. "Now you are distinguished."

"No longer a callow youth?"

"You were never callow."

The band began playing again, and he took her in his arms. They flowed onto the dance floor with a grace that belied their years.

"I am a grandfather now. Six girls and four boys," Giuseppe bragged.

"You are lucky."

"Did you and Felipe have children?" he asked.

"Two boys. One died a soldier in a foreign land, and the other is a priest. So," she shrugged, "no grandchildren to spoil."

"That must be a sorrow to you and Felipe. Is he here? Will he call me out for dancing with his beautiful lady?" Giuseppe asked.

She shook her head. "No, no, he died years ago."

"Did he make you happy?"

_Doña_ Sancha sidestepped the question. "We had a good life. And Anne-Louise? Were you happy with her?"

"We had many good years together." Like _Doña_ Sancha, he neither confirmed nor denied marital happiness. "I lost her a few years ago."

* * *

Catherine looked up from dancing with Vincent. The count and _Doña_ Sancha were still together. The dance was a fast one, and they were sitting it out, talking together. She smiled.

Later, as they stopped for drinks, Vincent whispered to Catherine. "Look."

She glanced in the direction he indicated. "_Doña_ Sancha?"

"The count hasn't left her side in over an hour," Vincent pointed out.

The two shared a smile.

The dance ended. After a few minutes' respite, the musicians began the next song. The count danced with Helen Dixon._ Doña_ Sancha danced with Edmund Dixon. _Doña_ Sancha caught Vincent smiling indulgently at her, and she smiled back at him.

* * *

When next Catherine tore her gaze from Vincent's cat-like visage, she saw _Doña_ Sancha chatting amiably with the count, the Dixons, and several notables of New York City high society. _Doña_ Sancha excused herself from the group and walked over to Catherine and Vincent.

"Do not worry about taking me home tonight. Giuseppe has promised he will do that. You two enjoy the rest of the evening," _Doña_ Sancha told them.

"We will," Vincent assured her.

"You, too." There was a mischievous twinkle in Catherine's blue eyes.

* * *

Catherine danced until the stars began to fade from the sky. She introduced Vincent to several of her friends and acquaintances, and watched proudly as he overcame his shyness to talk to new people.

At last, exhaustion overcame them, and he escorted her back to her apartment. Then they realized they were not as exhausted as they had thought, and it was several hours before he returned to the Tunnels.

* * *

The next afternoon, Catherine tried to call _Doña_ Sancha. There was no answer. Monday after work, Catherine stopped by the gallery. _Doña_ Sancha was not there.

"She called to say she wouldn't be coming in today," the cashier told her.

"I hope she isn't sick." Catherine worried that the excitement of Saturday night might have been too much for an elderly heart.

"Oh, no, she sounded fine," the art student and part-time cashier told her. "She just said she was going to take a few days off."

Catherine smiled and left the gallery.

* * *

It wasn't until Thursday that Catherine heard from _Doña_ Sancha again. She telephoned, and asked Catherine to meet her for tea at the Russian teashop.

"So, I take it your reunion went well with Count Giuseppe?"

_Doña_ Sancha blushed. "He has asked me to come visit his chateau and meet his family."

"I'd definitely say your reunion went well, then."

* * *

On a hot July morning, Catherine stopped at the Tunnels to say goodbye before heading off to the airport.

Vincent kissed her. "I shall expect postcards."

She nodded. "And I'll take lots of pictures."

"What did Joe say about you taking a long weekend in Paris?" He knew Joe Maxwell, Catherine's supervisor, was uncomfortable with her Park Avenue background.

"I told him I had to go out of town to be a bridesmaid. I might have forgotten to mention that I was flying to France for the wedding."

* * *

"I, Giuseppe, take thee, Sancha ..."

As Catherine stood with the ancient walls of Notre Dame, she wondered if Vincent would ever say those words to her.

The End

* * *

**1** _No, Don Vicente no puede amar a una boba_: Vincent could not love a fool.


End file.
